The Nature of Desire
by ReneeHart
Summary: "You're thinking too small. Of course you'll graduate. And most assuredly with highest honors. That's expected. I want to know what you desire," he purred, lowering his head once more so that he whispered them to her, a heaviness to the word. Desire. It was curling, suggestive. It sent a shock of heat and electricity down her spine, pooling at the apex of her thighs.


This was originally wrote for Weestarmeggie's 2018 Tomione Smutfest but ugh...life has gotten real (more on that in the end notes)

The prompt was Katoptronophilia (Arousal to sex in front of mirrors- either)

Also, this story is an AU setting wherein Tom Riddle attends school during the Golden Trios time there- a seventh year while they're in sixth.

 **The Nature of Desire**

Hermione sighed as she rounded the corner, fingertips dragging across the rough stone walls that arched around her. The corridor was dark, lit only by the small, dim glow of her wand as she held it forward, and the light emitting from the room just before her. The door was ajar, a sliver of gold spilling into the hall.

' _Honestly, are they trying to be caught?'_ she thought with a huff. It was well into the evening, long pass the time when students were expected to remain in their dormitories. She had hoped to have an easy night, without having to handle petulant rule-breaking students so she could retire early from her patrol to focus on completing her Potions essay. Evidently, said petulant rule-breaking students had other plans.

She stormed through the hall, using her foot to kick the door in as she extended her wand out- a precaution, given the odd and dangerous creatures known to lurk the school- and called, "Really, if you plan to sneak around the castle, at least have the forethought to _not_ turn the torches on."

Someone turned to her then, one brow raised. "Is that how you've been handling your prefect duties? Telling students on how to best sneak around without getting caught?"

Her cheeks flushed, warmth creeping up from her collar at the mocking tone. Standing before her stood, not a student caught traipsing through the school after hours, but Tom Riddle. The Head Boy. _Wonderful_.

"I...apologize for my intrusion. I thought-"

"I know what you thought," he snapped, blue eyes flicking upward as if in an aborted eye roll notion, arms folding over his chest. It was a stubborn gesture, and she clenched her jaw at the sight of it. Why was he so cross with her? She had done nothing wrong- in fact, if she recalled the timetables correctly, he was not supposed to be patrolling at all that night. And it wasn't as if she gave him many opportunities to be slighted by her; she had never even had a proper conversation with him, outside of prefect meetings. He was a year above her, and a Slytherin no less.

They didn't exactly run in the same circles, outside of their duties.

She sniffed, inclining her chin to not look as small as he tried to make her feel. "You're the one lurking about with no good reason to be outside your Common Room, other than you can. I'm at least scheduled this evening, so forgive me for fulfilling my obligations," she said, trying her best to curb the sharp edges in her words, letting her tone fall just short of disrespect.

It wasn't that he was a Slytherin that she was hesitant towards him- she really did think that the rivalries and prejudices between the Houses was rubbish. And even Harry had to contend that of the Slytherins, he was the most palatable of the lot. He was kind enough, polite to students and faculty alike, and was well liked by everyone who met him. Of course, it didn't hurt that he was handsome in a way that seemed unfair to Hermione, like God or whatever creation nonsense had taken special care when creating him.

No, she was hesitant to him because it all seemed too...perfect. Too well manicured, too polished. The sort of perfection that one achieves when they have everything to hide. _'Don't look at me too closely, or the act falls apart,'_ it screamed.

Perhaps she was being paranoid. Petty. Jealous. All those sorts of ugly words she hated to be associated with. Tom Riddle wasn't just kind and well-mannered or so pretty it hurt, he was also wildly, insanely, frustratingly brilliant. He was the standard that had been set for her, the bar for excellence raised upon his broad shoulders. And each assignment, each essay, each test was never good enough unless it elicited a _'Wonderful job, Miss. Granger! You're giving Tom Riddle a run for his reputation, eh?'_ But even then, she still fell into his shadow. Because the sod had to have the audacity to be a year older than her, forever marking her as his predecessor.

"Lurking about? I hardly lurk, Miss. Granger. I loiter, if anything. Lollygag at worst," he joked, one end of his mouth curling upward into a grin.

Her lips twitched, as if she resisted a smile. "What are you doing up here anyway?" she asked, finally looking at the room. It was small, only a bit more spacious than the average broom closet might be. Made even smaller by the large and gaudy mirror, tucked at an angle in the corner. It was flanked in gold, high steeples decorating the top, and something was carved into the frame, though she couldn't read the inscription. A sheet had been tossed to the floor, crumpled in a heap. "Surely the Slytherin dormitories have mirrors? Otherwise Malfoy would have had a fit by now, I'd imagine."

He chuckled briefly, the sound short lived as he took a step towards her, his features darkening. He pinched his lips, tilted his head to the side as his blue eyes- did they always seem this dark? Or was it a trick of the light?- flicked over her in a way that made her suddenly too warm. "They do, yes. But none like this. It's a very...special mirror," he drawled, his voice lowering to a dangerous timber. It reminded her, vaguely, of the hum a lion made before it roared. The low grumble of a storm before it turned to thunder.

She shifted, uncomfortable at the sharp and swift change in his demeanor. "How so? It's just a mirror."

"Come see for yourself," he said, extending a hand out towards the mirror in an inviting gesture. Why, then, did it seem like such a challenge?

She was being ridiculous, she knew. This was Tom Riddle, not a blast-ended skrewt. He was harmless, the pride of Hogwarts, regardless of her personal feelings to him. She stepped into the room, waiting for him to step aside so she could stand in front of the mirror he was blocking.

But he didn't. He remained standing, expectantly, lips twisting into what could only be described as a wicked grin. If it _was_ a challenge, she wouldn't be the one to back down she decided, and she confidently strode between him and the mirror, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.

It was forgotten, though, as she gasped at the reflection. It was her, standing before Albus Dumbledore as he awarded her a certificate of graduation, with highest honors. There was a raised dais, and all of her favorite teachers in the background, smiling and clapping excitedly.

"How...how is that possible?" she whispered.

She was startled when fingers curled over her shoulders, Tom bringing his lips so close that she could feel his breath on the shell of her ear as he said, "Tell me, Hermione. What do you see?"

She swallowed roughly, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet as if it might place enough distance between them.

It didn't.

"It's my graduation day. I've gotten the highest possible marks."

She hadn't finished speaking before he started laughing.

"Really, Hermione? Graduation? _That's it?"_ he finally asked when his laughter faded, and she felt her ears burn at his mocking.

She twisted around, having to bend at the waist to look up at him because he was so close. "What do you mean that's it? What am I supposed to see?"

He licked his lips. It reminded her of a hungry predator. _"_ _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ _."_ he answered, then after a second, "I show not your face but your heart's desire. You mean to tell me that of all the things you could have, every selfish want or need, yours is to graduate?"

She pinched her lips. "I'm sorry, am I doing something wrong?" she sneered. How dare he ask her what she saw, only to laugh at her response?

"You're thinking too small. Of course you'll graduate. And most assuredly with highest honors. That's _expected._ I want to know what you desire," he purred, lowering his head once more so that he whispered them to her, a heaviness to the word. _Desire_. It was curling, suggestive. It sent a shock of heat and electricity down her spine, pooling at the apex of her thighs.

"It must be what I desire, if its what the mirror showed," she answered. But her voice sounded small, even to herself. The heat in his eyes was becoming too much, boring holes into her skin and leaving a blazing trail in its path. She averted her gaze, turning back to the mirror and the graduation scene.

"Desire can change. By the day. By the hour. By the minute. It can be whatever you want most at that moment. It can be selfish. Pleasurable." His words were emphasized by the brush of his fingers across her thighs, just below the hemline of her skirt. Her breath hitched at the touch, so soft that she might not have even known he was touching her if not for the flutters in her stomach. The startling sensitivity that prickled her skin, each breath of air a flurry of sensation. Each shift of her clothes against her skin a bolt of lightning.

She wanted to say something to him, though what she did not know what. Her mouth was dry from the barely there caresses, and each thought died on her lips. She wanted to tell him to stop, but really, it was a lie. It was exciting, thrilling. The ghost of his fingers as they slowly- painfully slowly- dragged up the slight curve of her thigh, hiking her skirt up with it. The warmth of his breath as each word cupped and curled around her ear made gooseflesh tremble up her arm. She wanted to chase it, follow after this strange and wonderful sensation. She wanted to ask him what it was he desired most, but the words would not come, stuck in her throat.

She nearly snorted hideously at that. _For once in her life, she didn't know what to say._

"You can do so much more than you think. You can want so much more than you have," he continued, either unaware of the effect he was having on her, or delighting in each shiver that he inspired. Her skirt was raised to an indecent length now, his hands smoothing inward instead of up. "I know you're the only one to ever get close to my test scores, that you take all the classes I did and make it your life's work to outshine me, though you know you never will. I know you don't trust me, even though I'm perfect in every conceivable way. I've been watching you for some time. I especially enjoy watching you at dueling club. You're almost as good at me. But a little less sophisticated in your technique."

She wanted to glower at him, irritated by the praise that he refused to give her, dangling it just above her head. But instead she hissed, closing her eyes tightly as his fingers found the soft inside of her thigh, the pads of his thumb running smooth circles. She nearly whimpered in want, her body tingling and begging for the hands to raise just a bit higher, delve just a bit deeper. Her erect nipples grazed the fabric of her bra- why did it seem so tight all of sudden?- and she thought she might begin to plead for him to strip her, replace the coarse sensation with something much more pleasant. Gentle caresses, plump lips.

But she had more dignity than that, she told herself, trying her best to remain upright. To swallow all the moans he was evoking.

"So, tell me again Hermione, what is it you desire most?"

She inhaled sharply, taking a shaking breath. She wanted him to never stop touching her. She wanted him to stop teasing her with feather light touches and lips that brushed against but did not press into her skin. She wanted him to do all sorts of devilish things to her.

She also wanted to run from the room and never look back. She felt like a stupid, wanton school girl. So overcome by lust that she could forget about the fact that she didn't particularly _like_ Tom Riddle. Certainly not enough to sleep with him. She hated that he could make her feel this way, that she had to force herself to not buck into his hand like some trollop even as he degraded her. Mocked her for being not _good enough_.

She hated not being good enough.

"I...I should get back. Harry and Ron will worry when I don't get back," she whispered.

She hated that she nearly whined at the loss as his hands came to his side and he stepped back. Her skirt slunk back down the length of her thighs, and she trembled at the sudden cold that came to her without him enveloping her.

"Wouldn't want to worry them, now would we?" he said. She didn't need to look to know he was smirking. "Shall I walk you back? Merlin knows how dangerous this school could be. Though I suppose it's a little less so, thanks to Potter."

"I'll be fine, thank you," she said, clearing her throat and trying to sound as unaffected as she wished she was. It seemed like a threat, those words. Calling back to the sudden death of the Ravenclaw girl last year, the one whose death nearly closed Hogwarts for good.

Before her resolve could crack, she ran from the room, though not before chancing a glance behind her. Tom had all but forgotten of her, his attention fixated on the mirror.

What did Tom Riddle desire most?

She wasn't entirely too eager to discover that.

~x~

She didn't speak to Harry or Ron as she entered the Common Room.. She didn't even look at her essay. She could think of nothing but Tom and his hands roaming across her, touches that committed to nothing, but promised everything. Try as she might, she couldn't forget the feeling of his fingers or the brush of his lips. With eyes squeezed tight and her legs clamped together even tighter, she lied on her bed and forced herself to think of anything- anything at all.

No thought was as captivating as the memory of him shrouding her. No thought demanded her attention more than the ones she was stubbornly refusing to give it to.

She considered shaking Ginny awake to tell her all about it, but decided against it. Speaking it aloud would make it too real and solid. She wanted it to fade. Besides, she loved Ginny, but she knew well enough that her advice would be to use him for a good shag. He was Tom Riddle after all. Half the girls in the school would wish to have Hermione's dilemma. And he really was far too attractive, with perfectly sculpted cheekbones, high and sharp that created shadows in the hollow of his cheek. Dark blue eyes that she knew could burn her alive if she gazed in them for too long, plump and soft lips that looked too inviting for their own good. Fine, black curls that he swept neatly aside that she wanted to entwine her fingers in, grasp tightly and tug on the lock as she held him to her-

 _Oh, bloody hell._

She shoved the blankets aside- they were too constricting, too suffocating- and peered out from behind the posters surrounding her bed. The room was filled in shadows, quiet punctured by the occasional snore or mumble in sleep. Retreating back inside the comfort of her bed, she cast a silence charm and shimmied out of her pajama bottoms.

Normally, she might take her time doing such a task. Trailing a path down from her breasts, pinching each nipple until they were pert, biting down on groans as she moved down her flat stomach. Her fingers would smooth over her inner thighs, brush against her swollen labia before she would finally rub circles against her clit. Slipping her fingers inside her, one digit, than a second if the need was too strong and pump them in and out so that her palm brushed against her clit with each stroke.

There was none of that in this. This was a desperation, not a courtship. Her center ached with need, and she tried to fulfill it. That never ending want that he had spurred in her. She was fast and clumsy, just wanting it to be over so she could finally go to sleep. She conjured up every sensual image she could, the few glimpses of pornography she had been brave enough to glance through at home. And when that didn't fit, didn't feel intimate enough, she tried to recall the few awkward fumbling-in-the-dark moments she had had with Viktor Krum.

Had even tried to imagine Ron, her crush once upon a time.

But none of it seemed to compare to the heated gaze Tom had given her, to the way the slightest of touches had felt like too much. Her body was stubbornly refusing to continue her dislike of the Head Boy, and with a frustrated grunt, she finally let her mind think of him. Her fingers retraced the path he had made, hoping in vain that it might be enough. That she could trick herself into thinking it was him.

How had he done it? He had barely even touched her, and here she was, near tears as she tried to chase down the orgasm that had eluded her since she left him. How had he made something so simple into an addiction, a high her body craved and needed? How was he better at her at everything, including pleasuring herself?

She did not know how long it took, but eventually she felt the familiar tug at her navel, the twitch and spasm as her muscles contracted. When she hit the crest of her orgasm, she was disappointed by how unfulfilling it had been. The necessary though unnatural end to her pleasure seeking.

She hated that Tom Riddle could do this to her.

~x~

Hermione refused to avoid him. If it had been a challenge, she didn't back down. She attended the weekly prefects meeting, and had made certain to greet him with an appropriate level of cheer and politeness. Not too eager, but not quite rude. He returned it in kind, but there was something below the surface. A tension barely concealed by his false platitudes and friendly demeanor.

She thought of a wolf in wool, lying await until a sheep believed the disguise and came too close.

If it had been a challenge, she was winning. She could feel his eyes on her back during meals, pretended to know nothing when Harry furrowed her brow. _"What's got Riddle so obsessed with you lately? Did you finally beat him in an essay writing contest or something?"_ Ginny had smacked him, sending Hermione a salacious wink that she blinked at dumbly. She refused to admit defeat.

And even if she thought about him nightly, even if her skin still burned in the places he had barely touched and she tried to relive that moment over and over again with her own fingers, in her bed or the shower…

Well, he needn't ever know.

And if, nearly a month later since their strange encounter in the room with the even stranger mirror, she had returned to it unable to abate her curiosity any longer-

He needn't know that either.

The room was empty this time, mercifully. The sheet draped over the mirror, leaving only the clawfoot stand visible. She took her time before approaching it, closing the door so that it clicked, the sound deafening in the small room. Walking along the perimeter, wand in hand, she ignited each of the torches dotting the walls, making the flame low and dim.

Satisfied, she finally turned to the looming mirror, one hand grasping hold of the sheet. With a swift tug, she pulled it over the arching form, dust unsettling and spilling into the air. It fluttered to the floor, one corner held tight in her fist as she gazed at her reflection.

Gone was the dais, the applauding staff and beaming Dumbledore as he shook her hand eagerly. In its place were two figures, naked and entwined. The first was familiar, her own body reflected back to her. She was well acquainted with it, knew all the freckles that dusted her shoulders, each pale sliver across her hips and thighs- permanent reminders of puberty. She could even see the dimples that sat upon her lower back, crescent moons dipping into her dark skin.

Her arms were reaching across a smooth, pale torso, nails dragging into his back and along the curves of his shoulder blades. A leg was raised, looping over his hips and pulling him closer, deeper. It was of course Tom Riddle, fucking her the way she could only dream of.

She wondered if this made her a voyeur. She felt a blush creep up her collar at the obscene reflection, balking somewhat at the knowledge that _yes, this was what she wanted most._ Maybe Tom had charmed it. Maybe he was lying to her and playing a trick on her, dangling her along and hoping to torment her with heartbreak.

But what heart was there to break really, when she already disliked him? She didn't desire Tom, not really. She desired his body pressed against her own, his hands with the long and dexterous fingers. His lips, his tongue. His cock. It wasn't as if he could tease her into the promise of a relationship, only to through such promises away after a shag.

She was being devastating superficial, she knew. But he was so pretty to look at, even if she distrusted his perfected image.

She swallowed as the scene continued to unfurl before her, as they twisted and contorted into new and wonderful postures. She wondered which one might feel the best, which one she would like most. Her body tingled, ignited in its arousal. The spark beginning in her breasts and ending at her dampening center, her knickers sticking to her uncomfortably.

She wondered if her orgasm would be more fulfilling here, before the mirror. The two bodies splayed before her and enacting all the wildest fantasies that had flicked through her head. It seemed utterly pathetic, and she turned to leave before she could linger on the thought any further.

She stumbled, coming to an abrupt halt.

Tom Riddle grinned wide, baring his teeth as he rested against the closed door, arms folded over his chest. He looked as if he plucked the moon from the sky and tried to swallow it whole. "Really, if you plan to sneak around the castle, at least have the forethought to _not_ turn the torches on," he repeated her words back to her, and she felt her blush deepen.

"How long have you been here?" she asked, trying to not seem guilty of anything. Failing as her eyes roved over his body, wondering how accurate the mirror's reflection had been.

If he noticed, he said nothing, shrugging his shoulder. "Long enough. What ever is so fascinating about that mirror that I was able to sneak in without you so much as looking over? Did Merlin himself show up as the key note speaker to your graduation?" His tone was playful, like a cat batting a mouse back and forth.

Her eyes darted to the mirror, heart thudding so loudly in her chest she swore he might hear it. He wasn't able to see what she saw, was he? The scandalous images for her, and her alone?

"If you'll recall, _Riddle_ , the first time we met here, _you_ were the own fawning over the mirror like you had never seen anything prettier. So I hardly see how I am any more deserving of judgment than yourself," she hissed, hoping that the words sounded poisonous enough that he would leave her be.

But instead of rising to her bait, he sobered, eyes darkening just a shade, as if consuming the shadows in the room. "Do you want to know what I see?"

 _No. Absolutely not._

"What?" the traitorous words slipped out before she could stop them, and he was striding through the room. His gaze never left the mirror, and she fought the desire to toss the sheet back over it and obscure her shameful thoughts. He walked slowly, each footstep echoing a beat of her heart, and he didn't come to a stop until he stood behind her, just as they had been positioned before.

He leaned forward, one hand reaching out to pull a strand of her errant curls back as he said, "You."

She frowned, knitting her brows. "What?"

He pulled back, pressing his weight into his heel as she turned to look at him, her back to the mirror. "I see you. Sometimes your just by my side, your arm linked in mine. Sometimes it's just you, standing where I ought to be. And sometimes," he paused, for dramatic effect she presumed, and smirked as he said, "sometimes you're bent over, crying out in ecstasy as I fuck you over and over again."

Something blossomed in her chest, a flame burning brighter at his words.

"It confused me at first. I've never spoken to you, never even cared to. You're just some annoying know-it-all with horrid hair," he said, his voice warm and syrupy as if he hadn't just insulted her. "But then I started to watch you. Your dueling. Your apparent medical need to have a book before you at all times. I've watched you write essays for hours in the library. But the most interesting thing I've seen from you, Miss Granger, was just at the end of last year. You had just taken a visit to the library, and shortly after you left, Potter saved the day by finding Slytherin's beast and slaying it. Tell me, how long did you intend for him to get all the credit?"

This...was not going the direction she had thought it might upon hearing his crude declaration. "I...um...well...I'm sorry?" she sputtered.

He blinked at her. "You're the one who figured out what it was, even guarded against it when it came for you. You left Potter the note which lead to his discovery, and allowed him to take all the credit."

"Well...he was the one who actually killed it. I just determined it was a basilisk. And it wasn't difficult really. Myrtle had died by the toilets, and the pipes are the only way something that big could go unnoticed..." she said quietly. The distance between them was becoming less and less, and his presence more oppressive.

"Brilliant," he whispered, but the tone didn't quite match his words.

She shifted her weight, preparing to excuse herself when he interrupted. "What do you see? Now, I mean?"

A moment of silence stretched between them, and she craned her head back, tilting it to look into the reflection. It was still the tangled mass of limbs, fists gripping hair, tongues dragging down the column of a neck.

When she didn't answer, he prompted her, "It's alright, you know. There's nothing wrong with it. It might not make sense, and you might hate yourself for wanting it, but that's the nature of desire. It doesn't concern itself with your dignity.

"I know you hate me, Hermione. You've been in competition with me since entering this school, and I know you don't trust me. You think I'm hiding something, don't you?"

She licked her lips, nodding slowly. How did he know this? How long had he been watching her?

Why did the thought thrill her more than it terrified her?

He stepped forward, a hand reaching out as he traced his knuckles down her arm. "I hate you, too. But what you desire most is often at odds with what you want least. And there's nothing wrong in indulging in it. Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest and all those other charming proverbs muggles use to justify their sins," he said, his voice sibilant and deep and thrumming inside her like he was plucking the strings of an instrument.

His hand trailed up her shoulder, following the arch of her neck until he was brushing his knuckles on her cheek. "What does the mirror show you, Hermione? Are you obedient and begging while I have my way with you, or are you demanding? Fighting me for power and control?" He dug his fingers into her hair then, suddenly and without warning. She hissed as he gripped a thick clump of her hair, dragging her to him roughly as the other palm rested firmly on the center of her back.

Any protest she had was swallowed when his lips pressed against hers, kissing her greedily, hungrily. She had never been kissed so fiercely, so devastatingly that she struggled to breathe but kept chasing that feeling.

His tongue slipped between them, exploring and tasting her mouth as she did the same. He tasted like wine and chocolate, bitter and decadence and intoxication all rolled into one. She didn't care that his grip in her hair was vice-like, and that she could feel strands snapping from the force. She didn't care that he pushed her back, until she was pressed between him and the mirror. Trapped. Cornered.

There it was again, that thrill that shouldn't be. The inappropriate excitement.

His hand settled on her hip, a bruising grasp, as the other disappeared from her hair. He broke away from the kiss, and she took the opportunity to breathe deeply, richly, his lips peppering kisses down her neck. A tongue trailed between each kiss in his descent, teeth nipping into her flesh until she gasped and hissed at the pain that turned into pleasure, his lips sucking at the tender skin. "Do you touch yourself to these desires?" he asked, his breath cool against the patches of saliva he left on her neck. "Have you thought of me fucking you, tasting you while you play with your own cunt?"

She tried to steady her breathing, to not sound so out of breath as she said, "I've hated every second of it, you know."

He chuckled, and she could feel his chest vibrate with it. "Me too," he answered, pulling away just long enough to tug at her tie, pulling it lose. He tossed it aside, releasing hold of her hip so both hands could focus on undoing her oxford. "I hate that ever since seeing you in this mirror, all I could think about is taking you and claiming you for my own. I hate what you do to me, how much the sight of you reminds me of how pathetically human I am."

It struck her as an odd thing to say- what was pathetic about being human, necessarily?- but then he pressed his groin flush against her, and she groaned at the feeling of his erection prodding against her stomach. If his touches had been addicting, it was nothing compared to this- knowing that she had aroused him. Knowing that she had caused him just as much grief as he did for her. It was heady, powerful, and she was overcome with a rush of want.

She wanted to break him, wanted cracks in that perfect and manicured personality to show. Measured in the moans she could make tumble from his lips. Measured in the way he might beg her to continue.

Emboldened, she slid her hands around the waistband of his trousers, fingers deftly undoing his belt and fly even as he pulled her shirt open, revealing the slight slope of breasts, concealed by the plain black bra. She shoved his slacks and undergarments down, the metal teeth of the belt clanging noisily to the floor, and before she could convince herself otherwise, she dropped to her knees before him.

He hissed at the sight, his eyes half-lidded as he gazed down at her, the pupil blown and making the entirety of them black. A hand snaked back into her hair, but it settled there, waiting patiently as she took in the sight of him. Of his cock.

It was pretty, just like the rest of him. Average girth and long, and perfectly straight, straining against a bed of wiry black hairs. She had never been so close to one before- her frolics with Viktor always in the dark, and never close enough to see it. She leaned forward, letting her tongue flick against the rounded tip, a finger slowly running along the velvety skin of the shaft. He hissed above her, fingers tightening compulsively in her hair and she let her mouth slide along the length of it, her tongue licking against the underside.

She took her time playing with him, learning to hollow out her cheeks and suck so that he groaned deeply, the sound coming from deep within his chest. She licked her way up, letting his cock slip from her mouth with a popping sound as she curled her fingers over it, tugging them up and down in slow, dragging movements.

"Tease," she heard him mutter, and she grinned mischievously as she settled the tip against her lips once more. She picked up a rhythm, using one hand to twist and pull at the base of his cock, alternating between tight and loose grips, slow and rough as she sucked and traced her tongue along the tip. She let her tongue press firmly against the curve of the head, flick over the small slit across the center of it. She could taste the leak of precum, warm and sweeter than she had expected

He inhaled sharply at that, his body shuddering under her ministrations, and she looked up, wondering how his face might look as he came undone. But he wasn't watching her, nor were his eyes closed in bliss. Instead, they were fixed on the mirror she had been pressed against.

She leaned back on her knees, eyes narrowing as she pulled away from his erection. "Why are you looking at that?" she hissed, trying not to seem indignant.

He didn't answer, didn't even look down as he pulled her sharply up by the hand still gripped in her hair. The gasp of pain that fell from her mouth was immediately silenced as his lips once more enveloped hers, pressing her up against the mirror as one hand fell to a bruising grip on her waist, the other still laced in her hair, tugging roughly. The pain was slight, a minor sear along the roots, the burn of her scalp as her head was twisted in any manner he desired, his tongue brushing over her own. His tongue retreated only when his teeth nipped at her bottom lip, pinching it sharply.

Her breath hitched, and she hated that she didn't hate it. The pain of his fist entwined in her hair, strands snapping from her head and the tight snap of his teeth as he tore into her lip; the harsh grip of his fingers. It mingled together with the pleasure, the heat that pooled in her abdomen from where his erection- hard and hot- pressed between them. It sent a surge of something electric, something sinful through her spine. A charge that ignited in her breasts, her nipples sensitive as they rubbed against the fabric of her bra, which was beginning to feel too constricting.

It was as if he read her mind, the hands moving from where they had settled, tugging her oxford out from where it had been tucked into her skirt, the fabric slipping over her fevered skin and creating a flutter of excitement in her stomach. She had never been so exposed to another, and she hissed at the sudden cold that came as he made quick work of her other garments, only breaking away from her lips when it became too difficult to do both.

Her skirt fell to her feet, followed by her knickers, a pile that she kicked away as she toed off her shoes. She was left in hardly anything at that point, the most naked and undone she had ever been in front of another. It was exhilarating, pressed between mirror and Tom Riddle in nothing but her bra and stockings, pulled to her knee.

He was wearing far too many clothes, she decided, her idle hands finally moving to roam over the expanse of his chest, fingers plucking at the hem of his jumper as she pulled it over his head, tossing it to the rest of the clothing strewn about the room. It happened quickly then, a blur of garments tossed aside, fingers gripping skin, dragging nails in swooping arches that left a trail of pink. The room was filled with the sound of desperation, of need and desire. Panting turning into sharp, quieted moans, rustling of fabric as Tom finally stood just as naked as her.

She was unable to stop herself from drinking in the sight of his body- thinner than she might have thought, the bulk of his robes making him appear broader. His torso was lean and long, the contours of his muscles forming visible, attractive dips over the planes of his stomach, his alabaster skin pulled taut.

So pretty it was unfair, but instead of inspiring jealousy and pettiness, it only flared the burning within her, the hungry desire that was so unfamiliar but so natural.

He smirked, settling a hand above her head, fingers curling over the gaudy frame of the mirror as the other pulled at a curl, twirling it playfully. "Tell me, Hermione? Was the mirror correct? Because I must admit, I'm far more impressed," he growled, letting his gaze fall from her face and to her modest breasts. Small and rounded, nipples erect in arousal, and down to the apex of her thighs and trimmed patch of hair, wiry curls obscuring her cunt from view.

Suddenly, he twisted her around, large hands clasping over her own as he pressed her palms against the mirror, her back to him. She was caged liked that, his arms like a barrier, his chest to her and his cock nestled against her bum. Fingertips brushed down her arms, a hand pulling her hair aside and tugging it at the nape of her neck, pulling her head back so she was forced to look in the mirror.

She inhaled sharply, the sound turning into a low moan at the reflection before her. It was her spread out, back arching and her legs spread wide as Tom sat between them, his arms curling over her thighs and holding them in place above his shoulders. His head was bowed, tongue dragging circles along her clit, delving between her folds.

What would that feel like? Having him lick her, his tongue slipping within her and tasting every part of her? For a moment, she felt startlingly (oddly) modest, worried about the practicalities of such a task. It seemed obscene, spreading herself so that someone could consume her in the most intimate of ways. What might it taste like? What would _she_ taste like?

The thought was cut short when a finger slipped over the curve of her arse, easily sliding into her slick cunt.

She gasped at the intrusion, bucked at the hand that palmed her. She hadn't even realized his hand that had been gripping the mirror had moved and was now mercilessly rubbing against her, a second finger joining the first as he worked them in and out of her, crooking them against her inner walls. The other hand still maintained a firm grip on her hair, holding her head back so that she couldn't let it fall, so that if she were to have her eyes open, she was forced to look into the mirror.

It was scandalous- watching herself come undone in a mess of twitching limbs and mumbling lips as his reflection continued to lap languid lines up and down her cunt, all while the real Tom stood beside her, delving his fingers insider of her.

Was he watching the mirror still, too? What scenario was playing out before him? What salacious things was she doing to him?

The thought was enough to push her over the edge she had been straddling for weeks, the edge she had been chasing unsuccessfully for so long it ached. She shouted as her orgasm created tremors that began in her center, sending sparks of pleasure and electricity to her erect nipples and swollen clit. Her stomach muscles clenched, and her walls tightened around Tom's fingers, convulsing with the spasm that cut her nerves in two. Her legs shook, unable to support her weight and she reached a hand out, grasping hold of the mirror to keep herself upright.

Her moans were obscene, barely intelligible sounds strung together in quick succession. It felt lewd and humiliating, as if Tom expertly pulled at the seams that held together just to watch her fall apart.

It felt delicious.

"Merlin, Hermione," Tom growled, and he pulled his hand from her, curling it around her hip once more. She blushed at the wet feel of his fingers as the wrapped around her, her breath ragged and hitched, as if there wasn't enough air in the room and she struggled to fill her lungs.

Her eyes were clenched shut, the mirror and its reflection forgotten as she was lost in herself, in the sensations filling her, enveloping her. She imagined this was what it would feel like, coming down from a high. Her heart thundering in her chest, limbs trembling. She leaned forward, letting her forehead rest against the cool surface of the mirror, Tom's grip in her hair slackened enough that he held only onto the loose ends of her curls.

She hardly caught her breath before he jerked her hips back, felt the tip of his cock brush against her entrance. He leaned forward, torso draping over her back to whisper in her ear, making her already fevered skin unbearably hot.

"This was always my favorite way, bending you over to fuck you after I've already given you more pleasure than you can handle. Tell me, Hermione, has anyone else ever done this for you? Done this to you?" he asked, fingers brushing her hair from her face almost tenderly. The gesture seemed perverse, too loving, too gentle. She preferred his tight grip, snapping strands from her scalp.

When she didn't answer, he pushed his hips forward just a little, just enough that the very tip of his cock entered her, a sudden, not unpleasant pressure. A far greater pressure than his fingers had been. "Answer me, Hermione." She flinched at the coldness in his voice, the sudden command to them.

It made her ache, made her want to push her hips back until they met his but the hand on her hip held her in place.

"No one," she said, her voice hoarse and husky from the moans that had been ripped out of her throat. And no one had, Viktor's efforts had never yielded such success, had never pushed her over the edge let alone careened her across something of impossible length and depth. And he had certainly never gotten this far, having her propped up and all but begging for him ravage her until not only her words were unintelligible but her thoughts, too.

She refused to beg, that much she would not sacrifice.

"You're all mine, then. Mine alone to wreck and devour," he said, fingers leaving her hair to brush over the curve of her neck, the line of her spine. He pushed into her without warning, the thrust slow, giving her time to adjust to the sudden and sharp pressure, the sensation far more intense than his fingers.

She hissed through her teeth, grimacing at the tightness that wound within her, thankful for how slick he had made her even if the dampness on her thighs and on his hand had embarrassed her. He seemed bigger than she thought, though she knew it was just this was so foreign, someone entering her, splitting her open.

"Breathe," he said, and it was only at the command that she realized she had been holding her breath, lungs burning in her chest as she tried to get used to the feel of him inside her.

He pulled from her before pushing back, each thrust slow as he reached around to brush his hand over her stomach, fingers slipping into wiry hair that began as a small, tapered trail below her navel before covering her mound and found her clit. She arched her back at the touch, one hand raising and clutching at his hair as his chin practically rested on her shoulder. Her fingers wrapped around the soft curls, tugging them just as he had tugged at hers.

He chuckled, placing kisses along the curve of her neck, dragging his teeth across skin. It amazed her, how well he could multi-task; one finger circling around the sensitive bundle of nerves, each stroke igniting her once more, stoking the flames of something once extinguished until she was moaning filthily and he was able to increase the pace of his thrusts, her cunt stretched and slick with her arousal. It was rhythmic, like he was using her body to perform a ballad. Each thrust hitting deeper, faster, each twirl of his finger eliciting a steady streams of broken half words and utterances, each drag of his tongue across her flesh making her shiver.

She wondered what she might see if she looked into the mirror instead of keeping her eyes tightly skewed. Would the mirror still reflect Tom bowed before her, devouring her as he promised he would? Or would it have shifted, contorting the two into some knew, delightfully crude position?

Or perhaps it would act as a normal mirror, reflecting the scene splayed before it because surely nothing could be more desirable in this moment. Her, standing at an odd angle, her back arched so that Tom could still enter her even as her shoulders were mere inches from his chest, knees bent in such a way that if he let go she would fall, head smashing the surface of the mirror. His hand snaked across her waist, using two finger now to swirl around her clit even as he continued to fuck her- the once uncomfortable act now electrifying. She felt full in a way she hadn't realized she could be, as if a part of her had been missing that she hadn't even known of.

Her breasts ached, bouncing with each thrust into her, and she pulled her hand away from where it gripped the mirror to lay it flat across her chest, pinching her nipples between her thumb and finger, groaning at the mounting pleasure, the stimulation that was just shy of too much. It was warm and electric, her pulse beating so heavily she could feel it against her skin, a thin sheen of sweat coating her arms and chest. Her heartbeat was a tangible presence, knocking against the cage of her ribs and thrumming through her, adding to it all, overwhelming her further.

Tom bit at her earlobe, dragging her from her muddled and addled thoughts. "Is this what you desired? You never did tell me, and after all I've shared with you," he growled, punctuating the words with a sharp thrust, a careful grinding of his hips.

There was no point in hiding it now, was there? And it wasn't as if she were alone in her thoughts, the only one indulging in the sin they shared.

"I saw...this," she answered, her voice breathy and worn.

"Did you touch yourself, thinking of me? Thinking about what I could do to you if you just let your guard down and give into your want?"

She nodded, no longer ashamed by the month spent seeking the release he was giving her, had given her. She wondered if he did the same, borrowing the images from the mirror for his fantasies, imagining his hand as her own, trying to mimic the feel of her mouth or her cunt. For how long, knowing he had been watching her since at least last year.

Had been _fascinated_ by her.

She didn't flatter herself so much to think him obsessed, but the idea flared something within her, tightened the coils that were winding within her. That he had wanted her, just as badly as she wanted him. For longer than she had wanted him. That of all the girls who would gladly enter his bed, all of the prettier girls with smoother bodies, she had been the one he couldn't stop thinking about.

The one he _desired._

Her orgasm was slower this time, less intense, but it still drew from her a fountain of curses and moans and panting breaths. Her hips bucked wildly, and Tom's steady rhythm came undone, forming an uneven, heavy staccato.

He held her in place as he came only moments after her, his lips wrapping around the base of her neck and biting sharply into the skin. The pain mingled with the crest of her orgasm, and she leaned into it, tilting her head aside to give him a greater canvas.

His muscles shook and convulsed against her; his cock twitched inside her as he filled her. Marked her, teeth digging into her flesh.

' _You're all mine. Mine alone.."_ he had told her.

A moment passed, counted in the heavy breaths that filled the small room, the air thick and musky with the smell of sex and sweat. He was the first to disentangle, taking several steps back from her. The metal of his belt clanged noisily as he pulled his trousers back up from the pile of their clothes.

"You should get dressed, Miss Granger. Ron and Harry will worry if you don't return on time," he said, that same icy tone from before, the one he had commanded her with.

The one she had answered to, she realized with indignation.

She hated him, and a good shag wasn't going to change that.

"Right," she snapped, the crash back to reality sharp and disorienting. She wasn't hurt- she hardly had any right to be. She was using him just as much as he had used her. And she didn't regret it, even if she would spend the weekend brewing herself a contraceptive potion, far too much pride in her to report the incident to the school mediwitch.

For the first time since they had met in this room, she was finally satiated. As if she had been famished for weeks before finally sitting at a banquet. Like she had finally quenched an unending thirst. And if there was an ache, it was not an emotional one, but rather the ache at the base of her neck, red and swollen and indented by little crescents. The ache of her center, sore from being stretched so much further than she ever had before. The ache from the absence, suddenly empty and missing the loss of something she hadn't known she needed.

She was not mad at Tom, because she didn't actually like him. Even if he was skilled with his fingers and tongue, it was hardly enough to abet the paranoia she regarded him with. The sudden chill that overcame her with the knowledge that he had been watching her, studying her.

How was it that the idea could seem less thrilling, less exhilarating, now that her need and desire for him was fulfilled? How was it that something that- only moments before- had filled her with want could now fill her with dread?

She was less a prize to be courted, chased after and seduced. She was an animal being hunted.

She shook the thought from her head; Tom was still here, and it wouldn't do to startle on him now.

She pulled her wand out from where it had been in the pocket of her robes, wanting to clean herself off before dressing. Tom stopped her, a hand reaching and grasping her wrist.

"No. I don't want you to clean up, not yet. I want you to return to bed, feeling me inside you. I want you to remember you're mine," he said, but his voice was warm again. Deep and rumbling, the same voice that had curled around her ear, drove her near senseless for a month. She swallowed thickly.

How could he do that? How could two distinct voices exist within one, like he was the vessel to an entity that came and went at will? Two people living as one?

Which was the real Tom?

The notion upset her more than anything else had, and she nodded, trading her wand for her knickers that she slipped over her legs. They were dampened by the cum that smeared her thighs, but she continued to dress regardless, thankful for the clothes that shielded her from Tom or whatever it was that masqueraded as him.

When she was fully dressed, she ran a hand through her hair, the curls even more wild than usual, fingers catching on several knots he had wound in them. She tried her best to smooth it, needing to look as presentable as possible for the short moment she would pass through the common room. Despite his inattention in class, Harry was surprisingly shrewd, and he would no doubt become alarmed at her rumpled appearance.

That was an interrogation she wanted to avoid.

She thought of looking to the mirror once more before leaving, curious to see if it had shifted now that her desire had been extinguished, now that she wanted to get as far away from Tom as possible. But she decided against it- no good could come from it, she decided.

She turned to Tom- fully dressed now, leaning in a corner with a curious look to his blue eyes. He was chewing his lip, brows quirked as if in thought, and she decided against breaking it. This was not a relationship built on niceties or kindness, she decided. There would be no parting embraces or kisses.

She would not be unkind to him, he had given her no reason to. And she would offer him the same polite regard she had always given him during their prefect meetings. But she wasn't his.

She never would be.

She nodded once before turning to the door, coming to a stop at his abrupt words.

"Have a goodnight, Miss Granger."

She looked over her shoulder, pinched her lips. "You too, Tom."

~x~

Tom watched as Hermione left, the door closing with a click. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. His nose crinkled at the scent in the air, the distinct smell of sweat and sex and dust. It was repulsive, cloying and choking. He wanted to leave, though where he would go he did not know. The Slytherin common room was hardly an oasis, and certainly not the place he wanted to sink into right now.

Though he did smirk, imagining the scandal that would rock the house if he informed the lot he had spent the better part of the evening fucking a Gryffindor Mudblood.

He wouldn't admit that he enjoyed it, though. Drinking in her moans like the finest of wines, tasting her skin as if it were a delicacy to be savored. He reveled in the knowledge that he was the first and only to have her in such a way, that she belonged to him and had given herself over so willingly, the moans and grasps forming the pleas she was too stubborn to make.

He dismissed the thoughts, not wanting to dwell on them further. He had not given in to such carnal desires for the pleasures they wrought- though he would be a fool to deny that it had been pleasurable. It had all been the culmination to something that haunted him.

He turned to the mirror, a looming presence in the room. A living thing that breathed and swelled and lorded over him.

He had hated the mirror ever since he had first found it, when it lied to him about his desires by depicting the reflection of that girl.

He hardly even knew who she was, outside the mandatory prefect meetings and duties. Even then she would raise her hand in earnest, perching herself at the edge of the chair as if the Head of Houses might pay her more attention. He thought her annoying and insufferable then, and his opinions did not waver after he started to watch her more closely. When he paid her more notice now that the mirror had insisted she was his greatest desire.

She _was_ annoying and insufferable, subsisting on praise and work to bury herself in. Every bit the Gryffindor her tie marked her to be; haughty and loyal and brash to a fault.

But she was smart, and it was with irritation that he learned _she_ was the one that Slughorn had fawned over, insisting that she was giving him a run for his money. _She_ was the one who matched his own test scores and grades, the ones who other teachers had lauded as being one of the brightest witches of her age.

It was with even greater irritation that he watched her duel and came to the conclusion that her knowledge was not limited to books. That she was a fierce duelist who, though stiff and unnatural in her movements, knew what she was doing and had the heart and soul to make up for the physical prowess she lacked.

And she had been the one to foil him, ultimately. Not Potter, but _her._ She was the one who realized it was a basilisk lurking within the grounds of the castle. She was the one who gave Potter the knowledge needed to kill the beast.

 _His_ beast.

 _His_ birthright.

He hated her.

Hated that she was reflected back to him, over and over again since the day he discovered the mirror, almost two years ago. Hated that it never wavered, that the mirror stubbornly refused to suggest a different desire for him. Hated that the mirror had the audacity to paint them in such lewd positions, hated that it insisted _she_ was his greatest desire.

But he relented, gave in to the desire it claimed he had. Took the opportunity to seduce Hermione in the hopes that courting her might once and for all cease this haunting. She was a ghost that never left him, and he wanted- _needed_ \- her to vanish.

And it _had_ been a good shag.

With a sigh, he pushed himself out from the corner he settled in, turning to the mirror with renewed interest. She would be gone now, the desire met and satisfied and he could move forward from this unwilling obsession. Satisfied that she was of no more interest to him than to fulfill his needs.

He growled when he saw the mirror, hand curling into a fist before he realized what he was doing and punching the glass. It did not shatter or fracture, didn't even scuff despite the sharp ache that traveled from his knuckles to his elbow.

The surface remained untouched, reflecting back the face of Hermione Granger, lips curling into a vindictive smirk, eyes glowing with the flames that surrounded the room.

 _Why?_

Why was she all he saw?

When his fist did not work, he pulled his wand from his pocket, pointed it so that it was level with the space between her eyes, fiery and taunting-

" _Confringo!"_ he shouted. A dark orange light engulfed the room. Wood splintered and unsettled the dust that had coated the intricate carvings of the mirrors. He coughed, covered his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.

The dust separated, the air clearing to reveal that the mirror was almost entirely undamaged, saved from a small circle, a series of fissures cutting and dissecting through, two long cracks running on either side of it. It split her face into fragments, each piece reflected a distorted version of her image, like a kaleidoscope he had stolen from one of the other orphans as a boy.

He grimaced, gritted his teeth before flourishing his wand through the air, extinguishing the flames from the torches.

Shadows fell across the room, across the mirror and the reflected image of Hermione and her wild mess of tightly coiled hair, the smug twist of her lips.

He inhaled sharply, brushed the dust off the lapel of his robes. It was just a mirror, he decided. There was no telling who had enchanted it or if they were any good. It could have been a mistake, for all he knew. A charm turned sour in the centuries since it was cast.

There was no reason to dwell on it any further.

And, even if he did still find her intriguing, even if he did find a little bit of value to be had in the witch, he needn't worry. He would have her, without question.

If he wanted her, she would be his.

After all, if he was to be the king of his new world, it was only fitting he would need a queen.

~x~

"It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts... However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible."

-JK Rowling, _"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone"_

~x~

What better way to spend a day of getting buried in snow than by writing smut and Tom poorly adapting to his feelings and not getting his way?

I hope you all enjoyed my first foray into real _smut_.

An update for any of you who read my other Tomione His Persephone or my Tomarry The Man in the Diary: So, the past few months have been overwhelming to say the least. Dealing with issues at work that have resulted in me working 12-14 hour days, coping with the loss of a friend. All of it has been very stressful and depressing and beyond that, I just haven't had much time to write. Which is awful because I love writing. It's the greatest stress relief, personally, and for that reason, I'm forcing myself to write as much as I can in what little time I have.

What's not so great is the stress of posting and maintaining a consistent updating schedule. Not that any of my readers are demanding (bless you patient babes), just that I feel bad. I don't like posting and then disappearing into the ether. So, I have been writing chapters for those two stories, trying to build a buffer so that when I begin posting again, I have enough already written that I don't have to stress over churning a new one out. I'll begin updating them when I have enough backed up and life is a bit less hectic. I've already got a few done!

Anyway, thank you all for reading! Follow me on tumblr for a dumpster fire! I post snippets to fics, sneak peeks, and answer asks and prompts (eventually). Reneehartblog.


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